Colossus
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: 9 has a plan. It's stupid and suicidal, but he can't push it from his mind: he has a mission, and he's sure it didn't end when the Talisman opened.
1. Chapter 1

_Colossus_

Disclaimer: 9 and all affiliated content belongs to Shane Acker, Tim Burton, Viacom, and generally people who are richer and/or more talented than I am. But not for long…

AN: I had to do it. I've been trying really hard to hold myself back, but I had a plot bunny, and it had to come out.

* * *

_This is stupid. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be doing this._

He was doing it anyway.

_There are five very big reasons why you shouldn't play with this thing. And three more that are still alive._

Funny that he didn't count his own life as one of the reasons. That should have been a big one, shouldn't it?

_This is suicide_, the rational part of his mind reminded himself. That rational part of him sounded suspiciously like 1—maybe that's why he took such pains to ignore it.

"Isn't that what the Scientist did?" he asked the rational, cowardly, 1-like part of himself. It was easier to believe if he said it out loud.

_No, this is completely different. He died so we'd survive. You're doing for your own selfish curiosity, and you will very likely get all your friends killed because of it. Just like you did 2._

He felt a pang of guilt slice through him. He stopped and looked back at broken horizon where the towers used to be, belching smoke and fire. They were nothing but still, silent rubble now. Broken. Ruined. Dead.

The thought made him shudder, and he tore his gaze away. He needed to keep going. He was almost there.

_Maybe it's rusted over. Maybe it's completely ruined. Maybe it's dead and gone and won't ever come back, no matter what. That would be best._

He focused on the ground in front of him, trying to clear his mind. He'd already been through all of this. He'd already decided. He'd made all the preparations, and the calculations, and he didn't even know if it would work, and—

He crashed into a banner. It was faded and dilapidated from the rain, its single inscription barely visible anymore: _5_.

He was at their grave. The mounds had been pummeled flat by vicious raindrops, the trenches that united them filled in with mud and water. All that remained were the banners that marked the deceased, and even these had been beaten down by the weather. 1's flag had managed to fall into the mud.

_This is sacrilege_. That was very much 1's voice. _You're just going to go on and meddle with their murderer? Is that how much they meant to you?_

9 swallowed back bile, and pulled 1's flag from the mud and cleaned it as best he could. That wasn't right. That wasn't what he was doing. He was going to fix things. He was going to—

_Really_? His mind demanded. _What are you going to fix? Are you going to bring them back to life? Are you going to save them? Everything's fine as it is—it's as good as it's gonna get anyway. You should have quit while you were ahead—while 2 was saved and everyone was alive. You should have left it alone. You should have left everything alone._

He should have.

_You should turn around right now and go back and apologize to 7 and the twins for running off. You should never think about or talk about or go near the Machine again. You should just be satisfied and live your life already._

He should.

_So why don't you!?_

He didn't have an answer for that. All he could do was finish righting the flags in their positions, bow his head (he wasn't sure why he did that either, actually, but it felt right), and walk away.

Just over the ridge, just out of sight of the grave, lay an unburied corpse. Its dozen spindly arms lay outstretched and its legs were splayed, thrown back by the power of the Talisman. Its eye was hidden away behind a huge iris, but he knew that the once blood red light had gone dark. It was smaller than he remembered it—still gargantuan, but no longer the tower of steel and death that it once had been. Even so, he had to fight every fiber of his little being not to flee from its presence.

The Machine was dead, but it wouldn't be for long.

Not if he could help it.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Looking around, I realize that the proper name for the big glowy evil thing is the Fabrication Machine, or B.R.A.I.N., depending on which part you're referring to. For the sake of my sanity and wordiness, I am going to call the collective body and mind (B.R.A.I.N. and the FM) one thing, which I shall refer to as the Machine. I hope this isn't too confusing (it is, after all, a giant hunk of metal), but I apologize to any purists who are irked by changing names. I haven't gotten any complaints yet, so all is well.

AN: I've gotten a great reception so far, and I'm honestly really excited to see the 9 community grow. So without further ado, here's my second chapter:

* * *

For a long time 9 could only stare at the Machine. BRAIN, the Scientist had called it, and a little bit besides what he had seen in the projection of his creator. Once the fear had subsided (the most of it, anyway) he was left with a new, almost more troubling feeling: frustration.

This thing was dead—the Talisman's blast had broken its joints, bent its limbs and shredded its circuits. Even if it was at all possible to revive this thing, there was no chance of him doing it alone. 2 might have been able to manage the task, or even 5, but that was impossible. The monster before him had already stolen them away.

3 or 4 might know something… but there was no way he could ask them for help. The twins and 7 had spent their entire lives fleeing the Machine. How could he explain what he'd seen—what he had to do?

_They'll find out eventually._

He swallowed. Maybe, if things turned out as he hoped, they might forgive him?

_And if things don't turn out as planned, will they live long enough to have an opinion?_

Another swallow forced its way down his throat. He forced himself to study the corpse more closely, to find the bits and pieces that he might be able to fix. There would still be time to back out, after all—just because he repaired a few hinges didn't mean he'd have to actually wake the monster up. If it was at all possible.

Which it might not be.

After circling the body a few times, he found a reparable fragment: a hinge with a broken lynchpin. Carefully he nudged the shattered metal from its place and hunted for a replacement. The substitute wasn't hard to find, and while it took some effort to nudge it back into the hinged leg, it fit nicely.

It was a start. And in the funny way of all things difficult, the start was the hardest part. Once the first hinge had been repaired, it took him mere seconds to find another that needed attention, and another, and another. By the day's end he'd learned more than he had ever wanted to know about the Machine's anatomy, but the majority of that small, simple task was finished.

9 stepped back and wiped the dust from his face, looking over his accomplishment in the brilliant gold light of the evening. This could work, he decided. It might take him a while, but he could do it. He could fix the Machine.

Just not today.

It was getting late. If he stayed away any longer, 7 would worry. She might go looking for him, just in case there were any more machines left to hurt them. And if she found him (something told him she would) she'd find out what he was doing. And then she'd be furious, and they'd fight, and who knew what would happen then. Frustrated by the thought, he turned away from his project and began to jog back home.

He wanted to explain. He just didn't know how—he couldn't put it into words, couldn't lay it out to make sense. Not so they'd understand it.

The Scientist had made the BRAIN, just like he'd made them. That meant it was one of them—it had a purpose, like they had. It just got lost along the way. Confused.

And started indiscriminately slaughtering people in that confusion.

That sounded rather stupid when he put it into words, but the thoughts still made sense to him.

The Scientist had also made the Talisman, and designed it to fit into the Machine. But why? The Scientist didn't seem to want the Machine to hurt people, or kill them, or suck out their souls. So why build it to carry that kind of weapon?

And what about the Talisman itself? What had it actually done, and why? Was it supposed to capture their souls? Did the souls make it rain? Why would he make them if their purpose was just to die? Was the Machine supposed to have the Talisman from the beginning? Was the Machine supposed to die?

It didn't make sense. There was something off about all of this, something he wasn't quite getting. All he knew for sure is that something still needed to happen, and it had to do with the Machine.

He'd tried waiting it out, ignoring the nagging feeling and hoping it went away, but weeks passed and it just got stronger. He tried talking himself out of it—bringing up each and every painful reason why he should put as much distance as possible between himself and the monstrosity—but logic failed to persuade. This wasn't just blind curiosity; this was a physical need to approach the Machine, to fix it, to revive it. That fact frightened him, almost as much as the Machine itself did.

His mood cloudy dark as he approached the Library, but he managed to control his features: he straightened his back, kept his head up, forced an absent smile to play on his mouth. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that might draw 7's attention. More than necessary, anyway.

"Find anything interesting out there?" she called as he approached.

"I went to see the others," he said. A half-truth was good enough, wasn't it? "Cleaned up a little."

"Oh."

He could see it in her face, in her optics. He knew her well enough by now. She wanted to retreat back into silence, to watch and think and remember, to relax in the safety of solitude. She wanted to let him get on with whatever he wanted to get on with. He could also see that she was fighting what she wanted and taking charge. Because whether she liked it or not, she was in charge now.

"You got back just in time," she said. "It's going to rain soon."

"Really?" 9 glanced behind him, at the vast and relatively dry world outside the library.

"You can tell by looking at the sky," she said, a bit of the awkwardness leaving her voice as she settled on a comfortable topic. "See the clouds? They get tall and dark right before it starts raining. It's in the wind, too—it feels wetter than usual."

He knew she hadn't learned that from one of the twins' books. He nodded silently as she walked him back to the library, half-hoping she would forget what she'd wanted to talk to him about.

"9, are you all right?" No such luck.

"What do you mean?" he asked politely. No stupid stammering, no averted glances, nothing suspicious. He'd been practicing this for far too long.

"I'm worried about you," she said decisively. "We all are."

_Worried you'll get them all killed._ It was all he could do to suppress a shudder.

"About what?" That sounded too tense. She'd see through it in an instant.

"You haven't seemed yourself lately." She didn't use examples—there was no way of fixing his behaviors so they wouldn't notice. She just looked at him, unblinking, resolute in her concern.

"It's nothing," he said. "I'm fine." He didn't sound nearly as sure.

She said nothing, and they continued for a while in silence. He could almost have believed that she had let it go. Almost.

"I miss them too," she said suddenly as they marched between the library's looming statues. He glanced up at her but said nothing. "But they're free now. We made sure of that. _You_ made sure of that. And I know it hurts, but we have to move on. You can't just spend the rest of your life being miserable like this."

Miserable.

She thought he was depressed. Maybe he was. Is that how people felt when they were in the process of possibly murdering their friends and family?

_What are you thinking?_ Cried the rational part of his mind. _They're all you have left. They worry about you—they love you—and you're going to gamble with their lives? She's right: move on. Let it go._

"You're right," he said quietly. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly—a sigh of relief. "You're right. I'll get over this. I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Might of saved 6 if I did.

AN: I'll also be adding author's notes at the end of the chapter. They're not essential to your reading experience, but they're facts that might clarify things for those of you who are getting confused. For those of you who are uninterested in such things, just stop reading after you see the bolded **Fun Fact**.

* * *

"I'll get over this. I promise."

Funny how easily promises were broken. Granted, he had never mentioned where or when, or how long he would remain over it. He'd worked very hard at keeping his mind off his abandoned project, busying himself with making little conveniences to help the twins and stitching up 7 when she got hurt on her exploratory excursions and reading books that he barely remembered. He managed to keep it up for a good two weeks before he cracked.

And when that happened, he found himself walking the long trek back to the body of the Machine, a few tools and scraps of wire stuffed behind his zipper.

_This is just unhealthy_, the rational part of him grumbled.

It didn't matter anymore. He had to see it through.

He arrived quickly, stopping only to grab supplies and clean the grave, and set off to work. He decided not to bother with the Machine's body this time around, and instead focused on the circuitry. The delicate arrangement of wires that surrounded the Machine's iris had been burned and torn out of place, but he could see it more clearly than he could before. Each little wire went somewhere, each break was clear and well defined. Deftly his copper fingers unwrapped the damaged pieces and spliced in new wires, wrapping them with electrical tape to protect them from the weather.

_It shouldn't be this easy,_ he thought more than once as he worked. And I shouldn't be going this fast. But he was on a roll and he was enjoying the work, despite himself. There was something behind it—some grand purpose that didn't quite ignite his need to make bucket pulleys. This was where he should be.

It was early in the afternoon when he was finally satisfied with the mended circuits. He stretched and yawned, and had almost returned to the repairs on the Machine's spindly arms when something stopped him.

_Turn it on now._

That wasn't according to plan.

_Turn it on. Now._

Funny, usually he associated that tone with the rational part of his mind.

_If it's still partly broken, it'll be slow. It'll give you a chance to run away and warn the others. Turn it on now, and get ready to run._

Normally he tried not to agree with the rational part of his mind. This time he could find no reason to argue.

He pulled the Talisman out from behind his zipper. He'd taken it from the grave—1 might have called that sacrilege.

Slowly, carefully, he approached the underbelly of the Machine. The circle was exactly where he remembered it, emblazoned with its symbols and the three raised dots.

_6 would be having an epiphany right about now,_ he thought grimly. _This would be just the right time for him to tell me to do something. Or not to do something. Or anything._

But 6 wasn't around anymore.

A deep breath.

A step forward.

And he pushed the Talisman into the Machine. It glowed acid green, and he barely remembered to get out of the way before it flared into the empty air. The iris opened, pulsing with its hungry red light, its legs stretching as it realized its shoddy condition.

9 wouldn't have another chance. He leaped forward and tore the talisman from the Machine's hide. The disc came off easily in his hands, but not before the monster noticed. It pounced, its damaged legs pounding the earth around him, its razor claws diving at his face, its demonic eye descending, ready to drag him to Hell. He cowered, hiding behind the Talisman like a shield, waiting for the Machine to tear him to shreds.

Nothing.

He opened his optics and glanced over his makeshift shelter. The Machine glared at him, sparks flying through its mended circuits, its claws still poised to kill, but it didn't advance. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it seemed to withdraw, millimeter at a time, not quite daring to approach the weapon that had killed it before.

This was good. This was progress.

He opened his mouth, but his throat seized. He seemed to have forgotten how to talk.

"You're not going to hurt me," he said, his shaking voice making the command far less impressive. "Or my friends. And I'm not going to hurt you either."

This was the part where he was supposed to lower the Talisman, to show that he meant something peaceful. He couldn't quite manage to do that. Not while that monstrous eye was staring at him.

"I fixed you," he said, grateful he'd already rehearsed these lines. "I brought you back. We don't need to fight each other." And then the last line. It sounded stupid every time he said it—stupid and tacky and sacrilegious and horrible, and he would have skipped it entirely if he had planned for any more conversation: "We can be friends."

The thought turned his stomach.

And now the moment. Two possibilities: either it would agree to be… friends… and help him figure out what came next, or else it would attack, and they would proceed to kill each other. And then, if he lost, it would kill his friends. His family.

He did not expect the Machine to run. It raced away, fleeing quickly despite bent pieces and broken limbs that flailed uselessly behind it. For a moment 9 almost laughed—as grotesque as the Machine was, it was somehow incredibly funny to watch it skitter away. It was afraid of him. Afraid! And all this time he'd been so worried and—

He stopped short. It might be afraid of him. Or cautious. Or just waiting to regroup. But it had no reason to be at all worried about 3 or 4 or 7. They had no way to defend themselves against the monster.

He turned and he ran.

7 must have been lurking on the shoulders of one of the library's statues. 9 couldn't think of any other way she could have landed just behind him, her helmet lowered and her spear ready.

"What's out there?" she asked, her voice muffled and thorny from the mask.

"The twins," he gasped between breaths. "Are they all right? Are you all right? Did anything come this way?"

"No." She didn't turn around, though the bird skull of her helmet twitched as she scanned the horizon. "Did you see one of them?"

"We have to make sure they're okay," he choked. "Come on—we—"

She didn't need to be told twice. In a single motion she seized his arm and began running, her other hand never letting go of the spear, all but dragging him to keep up.

"3!" 9 shouted as they crossed the threshold of the library. "4! Where are you—"

A flash of light sent a chill down his spine. He tensed, forcing himself to watch, remembering all too clearly what flashes of light meant—

The light blinked out. And back on.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Slowly the panic subsided as his optics focused on the twins. They stood over a book, looking more than a little confused, their projector eyes flashing to prove that they were, in fact, all right.

9 felt sick. It was just too much. The running, the panic, the secrets, the fear—

_You knew better. You knew you shouldn't wake that monster, but you did it anyway. You deserve what you get. _

7 was talking to the twins, warning them of whatever was lurking out there. She probably expected another Beast—something she could fight with a spear, something she could outrun and outwit and outmaneuver. And even when she was proven wrong, she would still try to fight the Machine. Still try to fend it off.

He was going to get them all killed.

"…I want you two to stay around here. Check in with 9 or me every few hours, just so we've got everyone accounted for. Sorry, 9, but I don't want you taking any more of those walks alone. We need to keep track of each other. Understand?"

3 and 4 blinked enthusiastically. 9 could only manage a nod.

"If you see anything unusual, anything at all, I want you to let someone else know. Scream, or make a noise—drop something, shine a light, anything. We don't want another one of those…things sneaking up on us."

9 cringed at the memory, but he saw an odd sharpness in 7's optics. She'd been captured by the Seamstress. She'd almost died. She should be terrified, but fear had already turned into resolve, hardened into steel.

And all too quickly, something clicked inside him. He wasn't going to do this anymore. He wasn't going to distract her by making her worry. He wasn't going to let her face another one of those monsters alone. He was done feeling guilty.

It was time he did something about it.

. . .

* * *

**Fun fact**: This is a matter of character interpretation, but I consider 7 to be the leader of the stitchpunks after the movie. Why? Because 9 is too much like 6 to be a leader. He's a visionary and a prophet (who else has gotten explicit directions from their creator?) and those make rather iffy leaders—most of their advice and actions are rather counter-intuitive, despite the fact that they're often right. It's worse for poor 9—to date, he's gotten five people killed and managed to save exactly one. He's repeatedly made bad decisions. Allow me to give examples:

Let's put the big green button in the big button hole, and do exactly what the cat monster was trying to do. That won't end badly at all.Let's all go on what is essentially a one man rescue mission. It's not like we're gonna endanger the rest of them and get 5, 6 and 1 killed.Let's have a random party after we 'killed' the Big Bad. I mean, it's not like he could have made any other smaller killer machines while we and the audience weren't looking.Let's randomly leave the rest of the group and go do more prophetic stuff on your own time. Yes, it worked out for the best, but just walking away from your friends as they were about to do something dangerous is the definition of a Bad Idea. Oooh. So pushing the Big Green Button killed the Big Bad (for real this time). I know! Let's push it again and see what happens! (This is another one that ended well, but logically speaking it was rather suicidal.)

In case this doesn't clarify, 9 is not leader material. 7 has shown to be much more stable and rational in her decisions, but she's also aware that she needs to listen to him.

Does this explain why 9 is doing something so insanely stupid in this story? Not entirely. You'll get the full explanation later. Until then you've gotta bear with me.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Nada.

AN: Thanks for all the reviews. I'll try and keep going at a pretty decent rate.

* * *

7 must have been lurking on the shoulders of one of the statues. 9 couldn't think of any other way she could have landed just behind him, her helmet lowered and her spear ready.

"What's out there?" she asked, her voice muffled and thorny from the mask.

"The twins," he gasped between breaths. "Are they all right? Are you all right? Did anything come this way?"

"No." She didn't turn around, though the bird skull of her helmet twitched as she scanned the horizon. "Did you see one of them?"

"We have to make sure they're okay," he choked. "Come on—we—"

She didn't need to be told twice. In a single motion she seized his arm and began running, her other hand never letting go of the spear, all but dragging him to keep up.

"3!" 9 shouted as they crossed the threshold of the library. "4! Where are you—"

A flash of light sent a chill down his spine. He tensed, forcing himself to watch, remembering all too clearly what flashes of light meant—

The light blinked out. And back on.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Slowly the panic subsided as his optics focused on the twins. They stood over a book, looking more than a little confused, their projector eyes flashing to prove that they were, in fact, all right.

9 felt sick. It was just too much. The running, the panic, the secrets, the fear—

_You knew better. You knew you shouldn't wake that monster, but you did it anyway. You deserve what you get. _

7 was talking to the twins, warning them of whatever was lurking out there. She probably expected another Beast—something she could fight with a spear, something she could outrun and outwit and outmaneuver. And even when she was proven wrong, she would still try to fight the Machine. Still try to fend it off.

He was going to get them all killed.

"…I want you two to stay around here. Check in with 9 or me every few hours, just so we've got everyone accounted for. Sorry, 9, but I don't want you taking any more of those walks alone. We need to keep track of each other. Understand?"

3 and 4 blinked enthusiastically. 9 could only manage a nod.

"If you see anything unusual, anything at all, I want you to let someone else know. Scream, or make a noise—drop something, shine a light, anything. We don't want another one of those…things sneaking up on us."

9 cringed at the memory, but he saw an odd sharpness in 7's optics. She'd been captured by the Seamstress. She'd almost died. She should be terrified, but fear had already turned into resolve, hardened into steel.

And all too quickly, something clicked inside him. He wasn't going to do this anymore. He wasn't going to distract her by making her worry. He wasn't going to let her face another one of those monsters alone. He was done feeling guilty.

It was time he did something about it.

...

First came the sensors. An elaborate system of pulleys and weights and noisemakers, crisscrossing every possible entrance to the library. They formed nets, the spaces between the rope just big enough for a Stitchpunk, but not for the majority of the machines—and definitely not for the gargantuan Machine that he had revived. If any of them tried to enter their sanctuary, it would trigger a series of loud alarms, and give the four of them enough time to prepare for whatever was coming.

Then the traps. He made dozens of them, simple and elaborate, the duplicates of drawings and descriptions that the twins found for him among their books. He showed off his recreations to 7 and the twins every time he finished one, explaining exactly how to set it off and showing them how to avoid it. He knew that the Machine might be watching and taking notes on his defenses, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to let his friends get hurt. Not this time.

There was only one real problem with all of this. And she wasn't even trying to be problematic.

"9, I need to talk to you."

"Uh-huh," he mumbled, pretending to be engrossed in the knot he was tying. Somehow he'd managed to evade her questions with ambiguities and excuses, but he couldn't do that forever. Especially not now—he'd been planning to think up some new excuses that evening.

"The thing you saw—" she leaped gracefully over a flailing stretch of rope. "A few days ago. I need you to tell me what it looked like."

"I told you, I'm not sure what I saw."

"Please, 9."

"I don't know. A machine. It was… it was huge."

"I need you to be specific, 9. Exactly how big—"

_BOOM._

It sounded like thunder. It might even have passed for thunder, if the clouds had been a bit darker, and if the earth itself didn't shake at the sound. The snare 9 had been working on went off underneath him—he would have been flung across the courtyard if 7 hadn't grabbed him out of the way.

"That big," he whispered.

And they ran.

_BOOM. _

"3! 4! Get under cover!" 7's voice was almost lost in the torrent of books falling from their shelves, thrown by the tremors from their once organized places. "Get down!"

_BOOM_.

She dove under a fallen shelf of stone, 9's wrist still firmly trapped in her grip. Books fell like hail around them.

_BOOM_.

And then another sound—the lighter thunder of four massive legs pounding the broken earth, coming closer—closer—

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH. SCREEEE SCREEEE SCREEEEEEEEEEECH.

The sound was deafening, the awful grind of metal against stone. Suddenly they didn't care about hiding or shelter or falling debris. Their arms flew to their heads, flattening against their auditory circuits in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH.

The Machine had already learned to attack them with light—now it had come to kill them with sound.

EEEEEEEEEECH!

And then, just like that, it ended.

For five minutes—five minutes exactly—there was silence, and they didn't dare to breathe. Then the galloping thunder as the monstrous feet carried the attacker away.

"Stay here," 7 whispered after a half hour had passed. 9 was more than happy to obey—he wasn't sure he could get up just then, even if he wanted to. She returned a short while later, 3 and 4 trembling under each arm. The moment she released them they clung to one another and sank to the floor, blinking erratically.

9 didn't know what to do. Falling to his knees he hugged them both, wishing some sort of comfort into them.

"It's all right," he whispered. "Everything's going to be okay. I promise."

He felt a pressure against his arms and shoulders—opening his optics, he saw that 7 had joined them on the floor, wrapping her arms around the three of them and holding them all as hard as she could.

They spent that night under the slab, huddled together against the dark.

...

* * *

**Fun Fact: **Just finished rewatching the movie, and (besides counting the Machine's arms and legs) I noticed something I didn't quite realize before: That thing was HUGE. Not 'stitchpunk' huge. Previously I had assumed that it was four or five feet across, and it just looked big compared to the six-inch stitchpunks. Nope. This thing is at least ten feet tall when in a looming pose, and possibly closer to twenty. This thing towered over a howitzer artillery canon, and those things themselves are gigantic. I included a link to a picture of one in my profile in case you want a reference.

If I saw that thing in a dark alley (or... anywhere, come to think of it) I wouldn't be trying to fight it. I'd be running for my life. Probably while wetting myself profusely and praying to every god that has ever existed. Conclusion: These stitchpunks have guts, and lots of 'em.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Still own nothing

AN: I'm really delighted to see all the reviews. Thank you all for reading. Also, this was one of the few chapters that has a title. Mostly because I suck at titling things, and this one just seemed appropriate. So I give you

**A Summons in Stone**

* * *

7 stood on the crooked shoulders of a statue, staring at the fresh scar in the ground. Her eyes were wide; she looked ill.

"What do you see?" 9 called to her, but she didn't answer. She just swallowed. "7?"

He didn't ask again. Instead he seized a piece of the statue and dragged himself up the uneven surface. It was harder than it looked—7 always made it look so easy, so effortless. Too often his fingers slipped and his footholds melted back into the carved stone, but finally, he neared the top.

7's hand was already extended down to help him up. She was looking at him strangely, an unfamiliar emotion welling in her optics.

"Are you all right?" he asked carefully. She squeezed his hand tighter and pulled him up to stand beside her. 7's free hand touched his shoulder delicately, an odd contrast with the vice grip she still had on his hand.

"I'm going to protect you," she said, choking slightly on the words. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise. I'm not going to let anything hurt you."

"I don't understand." It was all he could manage to say. He wanted to reassure her, to make her promises, to hold her tight until this strange new fear faded away, but nothing came to his mind. Just confusion. She leaned her head slightly to the ground below them, but her optics were fixed on him. Slowly he turned his head to look at the mutilated stone of the courtyard, the ugly scar that had appeared in the night.

**I KNOW YOU'RE HERE 9**

For a long moment he felt nothing at all.

Just cold.

He stumbled forward and 7 caught him without a thought, her arms guarding him from anything in the world that might hurt him. She'd die before she let something happen to him—he could feel it in her embrace.

He hugged her tight and buried his head in her shoulders. So warm, but so thin. So tiny. Nothing but bone and buttons to protect her from all the dangers of the world, but she went out and faced them without regret.

She didn't deserve to die. Not for him. Not for his mistakes.

He swallowed. Braced himself.

"I need you to go," he whispered.

"We're going to stick together." Her voice was firm. He shook his head.

"I need you to take the twins and go. As far away from here as you can. Hide so it won't find you."

"You're coming with us."

"I led it here."

"This isn't your fault," she said, pulling away and taking his face in her hands, forcing him to see the sincerity in her optics. "It was an accident. Just an accident."

"It wasn't." He turned away. He couldn't look at her anymore.

"Yes it was. You're just—"

"I woke it up," he said, breaking away from her. He couldn't touch her anymore. Couldn't stay here anymore. "I found it. I woke it up, and it followed me here. I—" He squeezed his optics shut. "I don't know why—I'm sorry."

He tried not to look at her, but he couldn't help catching a glimpse of her face as he tugged at his zipper. He eyes were wide again, her head shaking in disbelief, her mouth half-open in an unspoken question. She'd backed up a few steps, nearing the edge of the statue's shoulder.

"I don't... _why_?" the words were barely audible, but they cut him to the core.

_Quickly_.

He pulled the Talisman out of his torso and pushed it into her limp hands.

"It's afraid of this. As long as you have it the Machine won't hurt you. Now take it, and take the twins, and go."

She'd backed up another step and lost her balance—it was the first ungraceful motion he'd ever seen her make. An instant later she caught herself and took off, sliding down the statue's curved arm. A leap, and for a moment she seemed to fly from the stone human's fingertips.

He waited to see her land and then turned away. He couldn't stand to watch anymore.

* * *

7 backed up a step too far. She felt the world lurch, her footing slipped, and she began to skid down the smooth arm of the statue. There was no place to hold on to, no place to find her footing until she reached the smooth, hingeless hands. Too fast to stop. No place to go but out. She caught herself just in time to gather her legs underneath her and spring from the tiny perch-- a twirl through the air to steady herself, and she landed safely on the ground. It took just a moment to get her bearings before she looked up at 9, watching her from the top of the statue.

_Oh_ no. She wasn't letting him get away with this.

She flung herself at the statue, fury and frustration speeding her ascent as she climbed the rock face. She was going to knock some sense into him. She was going to wring his neck. She was going to yell and scream until he went deaf. Hell-- she'd once lived under 1's thumb; she had plenty of ideas.

And she wasn't ever going to forgive him for suggesting they leave him behind.

She was already getting started on a tirade that would have made 1 proud by the time she reached the statue's peak:

"How _dare _you talk like that? How dare you even think it? Where did you get the idea that being dead is going to make anything better? Do you have any idea what you're saying, 9?"

She pulled herself over the precipice and glared up at him... Or would have.

Except that he wasn't on the statue's shoulder anymore. She was alone.

"9?"

She pulled herself up, looking desperately around. She couldn't see him on the statue, or in the courtyard. But he had to be here. He had to. He couldn't have left, just like that.

"9?"

He wouldn't be so horrible. So cruel. He wouldn't just leave.

Except he would.

She opened her mouth to call for him again, but her voice box couldn't form the words anymore.

He was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing still.

AN: I'm rather happy with this chapter. Rather.  


* * *

It was easier than it should have been to leave the library's courtyard. He moved like a shadow, fast and insubstantial.

_Maybe it thinks I'm the only one._ The thought felt oddly reassuring, a moment of grim optimism. _Maybe it won't know to look for the others. Maybe they'll be safe._

_Maybe they'll forgive me someday._

He wasn't actually sure which way he was going anymore, but he didn't entirely care. Not to the grave-- that was enough for him. He wasn't in a hurry to die. He just wanted to...

_You really need to start thinking things through,_ the rational part of his mind pointed out. This time it sounded suspiciously like 5, and that was rather comforting. A wave of relief washed through him.

Funny. He wasn't depressed anymore. Leaving hurt more than anything he'd done before, and he wanted more than anything else to apologize-- he'd done something stupid, he'd terrified the twins, he'd betrayed 7's trust-- but for the first time in far too long he felt like he was doing the right thing. The only thing that needed to be done. No more lies, no more guilt, no more pretending everything was okay. Maybe he would never get a chance to explain, but that was fine too. As long as they were safe.

He walked for longer than he cared to think about. When night fell he absently considered finding a place to stay for the night, but it wasn't that important. He could still keep going for a while. Besides, the clouds had finally dissipated enough that he could see the stars-- they were beautiful. Thousands of tiny pinpricks of light, glittering around a blood red moon.

He barely had time to realize his mistake when a long metal arm snatched him from the ground.

* * *

7 searched until nightfall.

She didn't want to come back without 9, but the twins needed her. She wasn't going to leave them alone to face whatever monsters waited in the Emptiness.

This had been easier when the others had been alive-- as intolerable as 1 was, he knew how to keep his followers hidden, and 8 had been more than capable of fighting off the smaller machines. Back then she could roam as she pleased, and occasionally glance through the Sanctuary's windows to check on the ones she'd left behind. Back then there had been nobody to answer to, no difficult choices to make. Just follow your instincts and fight the monsters.

It wasn't quite that simple anymore.

The twins had engrossed themselves in reorganizing the library during the day. The panic seemed to have faded entirely as they flipped through the endless pages and restored the order that had been disturbed by the machine's attack. They waved cheerfully as 7 trudged inside, ready to go on with their lives as they always had.

Like nothing had changed.

4 craned his neck a little, trying to see behind 7. Not finding what he was looking for, he scampered across the library floor to her side, looking inquisitively behind her. 3 followed close behind, and 7 found herself surrounded by clicks and flashes of light. Finally they turned to her, their heads cocked to the side, a question in their optics. 7 felt a pang as she realized what they were asking:

Where's 9?

She swallowed, looking for the right answer.

"9 is..." _He's a suicidal idiot. He ran off to die. _"He's..." _He's gone and never coming back._ "He's going to try to fix things."

* * *

For a minute (it felt like an hour) 9 cowered, waiting for the flash of green light and the agony of a stolen soul.

Then the minute passed and he came to his senses. The Machine couldn't do that anymore—the Talisman was far away, safe with 7 and the twins. Not that this eliminated any of the _other_ horrible ways the Machine could kill him, but that most terrifying option, at least, was gone.

For some reason this calmed him. Not much, but enough for the paralyzing fear to recede and his voice to return to him.

"What do you want from me?" he shouted at the colossal monster. Its iris contracted into a tiny disk (smaller, at least, than it had been—the circle of crimson light was still bigger than his entire body) to focus on him. He wasn't sure exactly what he expected in reply—the blinking lights of the twins? the roar of the Beast? a voice, like the humans and the other stitchpunks? or maybe it would just rip him to shreds and be done with it.

He didn't expect to hear another deafening shriek—the grind of the Machine's steel arms against stone. Again 9's hands covered his head, trying to muffle the sound and shield his optics from the shower of sparks that flooded the air. It wasn't terrifying anymore –he already knew he was going to die—it was just painful.

"Stop," he shouted over the awful sounds. "Stop it!"

CRASH. One of the Machine's feet stomped on the newly ruined ground. Instinctively he looked down at the source of the sound, and the message beside it.

**YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT**

"No I don't!" Aside from a gruesome and horrible death for all living things, he was stumped. The foot stomped beside the words again:

**YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT**

"I'm telling you, I have no idea. I don't know—" His voice rose to a cry of pain as the screeching began again. The iris widened and contracted, and then a change: the screeching became quieter. Not drastically, but it wasn't quite as agony to hear it anymore. The gouges on the ground became deep scratches in the cement.

**I WANT WHAT YOU KNOW**

That… was not what he expected to hear. Or read.

"What?"

It stomped again: **I WANT WHAT YOU KNOW**

Traditionally, having conversations with mass murdering machines was the last thing on his mind. Still it was better than a gruesome and horrifying death.

_Why not?_

"So what do you want to know?"

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH. SCREEEEEEE—he cringed. The massive iris bobbed up for barely an instant, and the screeches became quieter.

**WHERE IS HE?**

There were a few 'he's that 9 knew of. All but two were currently dead.

"Who?"

**YOU ARE NOT HIM**

That narrowed it down significantly, but he had a sneaking suspicion the Machine wasn't interested in 4.

"Who are you talking about?" 9 asked, covering his ears as he waited for a response.

**HIM**

"Can you be more specific?" he suggested.

The Machine crackled furiously. It was getting frustrated. Besides dying, getting the Machine mad was the last thing he wanted to do just then.

**YOU ARE LIKE HIM**

**NOT HIM**

This was not working. Time for a new approach.

"Are you talking about 1?" he asked. The iris narrowed, but not in a particularly pleasant way. "2? 4? 5? 6?" That one might have been plausible. 6, at least, seemed to have known far more than he ever said. "8?" Him, not so much. 9 racked his mind for any other names he could possibly recognize. The films 3 and 4 had shown him. "The Chancellor?" he guessed. The Machine tightened its grip on him, and he could feel his tiny metal frame bend under the pressure. One last chance—only one more name he could think of. "The Scientist?"

The Machine stomped so hard the ground shook. Somewhere in its excitement its grip on him slipped, and he tumbled to the ground. The landing was hard and painful and jarred his leg cruelly, but at that moment he was just grateful not to be crushed to powder.

More screeching as the Machine scrawled eagerly on the cement. The moment it finished it plucked him up to show him its message:

**YOU KNOW HIM **

**TAKE ME TO HIM**

"The Scientist?" he asked.

Stomp: **YOU KNOW HIM**

"But—"

**TAKE ME TO HIM**

**

* * *

Fun Fact: **My husband read through this (you know you got the cream of the crop of spouses when your husband not only encourages your writing fanfics but also reads them) and he thought that the Machine should try to speak (via voice synthesizer like the stitchpunks have) instead of writing its messages. What do you think?


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

AN: I had fun writing this chapter. So much fun, mostly because it deviates so far from the norm. And because it tickles that little fancy I have for villains.

* * *

He was a survivor. 7 knew that. He was clever—he could hide, and he could fight, and he could…

_He left to die. He was never going to hide._

"No," she muttered to herself, shaking the thought out of her head. She wasn't going to believe that. She was going to find him. She was going to find him and save him and then make him sorry he put her through all this. And then someday, a long time from now, she'd bring it up again and they might laugh about it. They might call it a grand adventure.

He just had to be alive. He just—_tracks_.

Not her tracks. Or his. They were huge, like shallow craters.

She knew these tracks. They belonged to the biggest, most evil, most terrifying beast that could possibly exist. The Machine.

* * *

It took longer to reach the First Room than 9 remembered. Probably because the last trip there had been a matter of life and death, and this time he was inclined to walk, thank you very much. Or because he was being followed by a monster that took one step for every twenty of his. Or it might have had something to do with the fact that his leg hurt and the Machine got irritated every time he stopped to rest.

The Machine wasn't the most pleasant companion, he discovered, even when it wasn't trying to kill him.

The resulting journey took half a day before they reached the building that housed the First Room. What little support it once had was already starting to erode away—the bare beams looked thinner, more fragile.

A new problem occurred to 9: the Machine was huge. Not just in a frightening way, not just to him and the others, but even compared to the human world. Its central orb couldn't possibly fit through the doorway that led to the room, and even if it could its weight would easily collapse the crumbling building.

But that was only the first problem. He didn't even want to think about what the Machine would do once it learned about the Scientist.

"He's in there," 9 said, pointing at the ruined building. "The top room with the window." He sat down, rubbing his sore leg, while the Machine climbed a pile of rubble. On top of the pile and stretching out its gigantic legs, the huge central orb found itself level with the open window. For a while it looked around, and then sank back down to stare at him.

**WHERE?**

The moment of truth.

"Under the papers," he said. "On the floor."

It took exactly two and a half seconds for the meaning of his words to sink in—two and a half seconds before it sprang to its full height with a violent jolt. The rubble pile groaned and crumbled beneath its feet, but the Machine didn't seem to care. Its arms tore at the ruined walls, covering it and the room inside with a cloud of pulverized plaster. Minutes later the dust settled and the Machine was clearly visible. It simply stood there, still and silent, a single lifeless form cradled in its metal arms.

9 knew it was the Scientist—it couldn't possibly be anyone else—but it didn't look like him anymore. Decay had finally reached his body, and already he resembled the blackened corpses that littered the streets. The only features left to identify him were his tattered clothes and a few tufts of gray hair, yet somehow the Machine had no problem recognizing him. It held his body tenderly—there was no other way to describe it—against its orb and closed its iris.

It was mourning him.

For a long while 9 watched in silence, leaving the Machine to its grief. He could leave if he wanted to. He knew it wouldn't look for him for a few hours at least. But something held him back—a vein of anger that slithered through him. No. Not anger. _Fury_.

The Machine had killed 5 and 2 and 1 and 6 and 8. It had killed off every plant, every animal, every living human. And only _now _it decided to feel sorry? After murdering an entire world, it decided to feel bad about the death of one man? It was sick.

Worse, it wasn't fair.

"I don't know what you were expecting to find," he said, his voice suddenly acidic. "Your bombs, your gas—you killed all the humans, remember?"

An arm slowly scratched at the nearby rubble.

**HE WASN'T HUMAN**

"You know that's a lie."

**HUMANS ARE EVIL**

**HE WASN'T HUMAN**

"Is that how you justify it?" He laughed bitterly. He wanted to hurt this thing—this awful, horrible, genocidal monster. He wanted to tear it apart inside and out. He didn't care if it killed him for it. "You want to know something? Those people you murdered had _lives_. They had families and friends and people who loved them and _you wiped them out_. You destroyed everything that was good in this world."

**I MADE IT QUIET**

"You made it dead. You killed everything you could get a hold of. My friends. My family." He could feel it draining away now that he'd uttered the words; slowly the rage leaked out of him and left him feeling hollow and cold.

**YOU HATE ME**

Its iris hadn't opened, it hadn't lowered the Scientist's body. It hadn't moved at all, except that single arm, yet somehow it seemed smaller than before. Weaker.

"Yes." The word tasted like poison in his mouth.

**YOU HATE ME**

**WHY DID YOU WAKE ME UP?**

It was the question he had been asking himself for weeks. It had plagued him and gnawed at him and left him hollow inside, and always he had come up without an answer. Just 'because I have to'.

"Because you're the only one I could bring back," he said quietly, knowing it was true. "Not 5 or 2 or 6, not the Scientist, not anyone—just you. So I had to."

For a long time it didn't reply. It returned to its stillness for what seemed an eternity. Finally the iris opened and it turned to look at him.

**WHAT NOW?**

Of all the places to go for answers. 9 sighed.

"Now we bury him."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Nada

AN: Believe it or not, I love 7. I really do. She's one of my favorite characters by far. Just so you know. Also, if I write a sequel would anyone be interested in reading it?

* * *

The ground here was soft. It had been covered with grass and plants once, before the world ended, but even now it was gentler, kinder than the distant ruins of the city.

The Machine had carried 9 in one of its spare arms—he couldn't have possibly made it this far in a day, especially not on an injured leg. He spoke quietly to pass the time, explaining the burials he had read about in the twins' books. If the Machine heard him through the wind it made no sign, yet when they reached the field and he was deposited in the dead grass, it followed his directions precisely. Even a stone was pulled from the earth and laid at the Scientist's head after he was covered. The stone was carved carefully and diligently with a single word: _Sir_.

The sky was growing dusky by the time the Machine was finally satisfied. It picked up 9 and wandered back to the city. He was half asleep by the time he recognized buildings (funny how easily he could fall asleep while suspended in this creature's claws). Slowly it lurched to a stop in front of a building he couldn't forget, the first message clearly inscribed in the midst of the elegant statues.

"What?" He mumbled, stirred from his rest.

The Machine began to lower him to the ground, but he shook his head.

"No. Not here."

He'd told them to leave. They wouldn't be here anymore. And even if they were, they wouldn't want him back. Not now. Not knowing what he'd done.

The Machine stared at him, confusion somehow evident in its optic, but it lifted him back up and continued walking. It didn't stop again until it reached the hollow of a broken old building. After setting him down carefully on a low pile of rubble, it settled itself into a corner and dimmed its lights, drifting into a hibernation sequence.

He limped to what looked like the remains of an old chair—it was soft, at least, and looked more comfortable than the cold stone he had been placed upon—and nestled into the cushion, letting himself fall asleep beside the beast.

* * *

It was a gamble, and 7 knew it.

If the Machine had made more Beasts, then going out at night would be a deadly mistake. But if it hadn't yet, then she still had the advantage—its glaring red optic was easy to spot in the dark, while she would be hard to spot against the debris.

And there was always the chance that she might lose the Machine's tracks in the dark. Not likely, she reminded herself, looking at the crater-like depressions, but still a chance.

If she was even remotely sane, she would have turned back. There was no chance he was still alive. Not anymore. But she had to try.

Who was going to throttle him if he died? The tracks circled and crossed a few times, but these looked a bit fresher than the others. She followed them closely, promising herself to return to the library if they led her to a dead end.

After more than an hour of hunting she found the trail's end: the ruins of what might once have been an apartment building. She hid in the shadows and ventured inside, past tattered curtains and the disintegrating remains of furniture. There was no sign of life, no homey hand-made mechanisms like she was used to seeing in the library or the Sanctuary, and now that made the building seem even more sinister in the gray moonlight.

It was a cave, a lair for the monster that lurked in the far corner. Its optic was dim, but still glowed with that same hellish light that she knew all too well. She prayed it was sleeping, and searched the corners for a cage, or another Seamstress, or something that might have held 9 captive while it waited to retrieve the Talisman. It wouldn't kill him without it, would it?

Would it?

Maybe it took her so long to find him because she didn't want to see him where he lay. There were no bonds, no restraints, nothing to keep him prisoner. He just lay there, illuminated from one side by silver moonlight and from the other by the Machine's demonic gaze. His eyes were closed, his limbs limp.

The Machine hadn't waited.

She was too late.

Her knees weakened beneath her—she wanted to fall down, to run away, to cry. So many people, so much had already been lost. Not him too.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair!

But she didn't move. She couldn't leave him—not yet. Not with the memory of how that _thing_ had desecrated 2's body. She wouldn't let it do the same to 9. He'd been stupid and selfish, but he was part of her family. She wouldn't leave without him.

Hopefully the Machine was a heavy sleeper.

She darted from shadow to shadow, getting as close to the body as possible. It would only take her seconds to cross those last few feet between them—barely inches now—

The room ignited into red light as the Machine woke, its horrific eye fixed on her and 9, its claws reaching for her.

No. She wouldn't let it have him. She gathered up the body and leaped, only to find two of its smaller claws on either side of her, snatching her out of the air and prying 9's body out of her arms—

"_NO_!" she heard a shout. "Don't hurt her!"

The Machine jerked her violently, but she twisted to see the source of the voice.

It was impossible.

"Don't hurt her!" 9 cried again, awake and alive in the monster's other claw. "She's my friend."

That demonic eye narrowed on him and glanced again back to her for a moment.

"Please, you have to put her down. _Gently_!" he added, almost as an afterthought.

The sound from before filled the air—that horrible screeching of steel on stone—but it was quieter this time. Softer.

"No, she's not dangerous. She's trying to help me. Isn't that right, 7?" he called to her.

"…That's... right," she said, floundering in her confusion.

"See? So put her down."

This had to be a dream. It had to be. She was slowly lowered to the ground and released, falling the last few inches to the floor. 9 was deposited a few yards away, closer to the Machine.

"9?" she called, her voice shaking. "What's going on?"

"Long story," he mumbled. "I'll tell you later."

That was it? '_I'll tell you later'_? She'd risked her life looking for him, and that was all she got? Some dream this was.

"You'll tell me _now_," she corrected, not bothering to hide her fury. Above her head, the Machine's claws clicked menacingly.

"All right," he said, half panicked. To the Machine: "It's all right. Just… um… excuse us a second."

Since when did people talk to the Machine that way? And since when did 9 walk with a limp?

He touched her back and led her around a corner, to the remains of what had once been a bathroom in the ruined building. It wasn't much of a hiding place from the Machine, but it seemed to satisfy him.

She wanted to ask what was going on. She wanted to ask why the Machine was listening to him, how he'd gotten hurt, what had happened. But somehow, those weren't the questions that escaped her mouth:

"9,_ what did you do?_"

A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between them as he looked at everything but her. Finally he mumbled his reply: "I…woke up the Machine."

"No you didn't," she said, taking his shoulders in her hands. "You woke up one of the Beasts. _They_ woke up the Machine. Not you. It wasn't your fault."

Now he looked her in the eye. "I fixed it," he said slowly, firmly. "I woke it up. Not the Beasts. Me."

"Why…?" she whispered, uncomprehending. The words didn't make sense. She understood them, but they weren't right. She'd misheard him. She was confused. It couldn't be right.

"I had to."

"_Why?"_ the whisper had become a shout, and this time it was punctuated with a metallic slap. Not enough to hurt him—just enough to hurt. He needed to hurt as much as she did. "Do you—do you have _any_ idea what you've done? What that—that _thing_—has done? It killed the others! 2! 5 and 6 and 1 and 8! This entire city—this entire _world_ is dead because of that monster! And you—" she seethed, unable to form the words in her fury. "And you—you woke it up? Do you _want_ to die? Do you want us all dead?"

"No," he said quietly, holding up his hands. "No, that's not it, I promise." His eyes flickered above her for an instant, and she turned on her heel, ready to run or fight. She only glimpsed the last of the Machine's feet as it meandered back into its corner. It had been creeping up on her. Ready to attack her, before 9 called it off.

"That thing is _dangerous_, 9," she hissed, pushing back the wave of sickening fear that welled within her.

"I know."

"It murdered the others right in front of us. Don't tell me you've forgotten that."

He cringed at the memory. "I haven't. And… we've discussed that."

"You've '_discussed it_'," she repeated, her tone acidic. "Well, that makes it all better, then. I'm so glad they made for good conversation." She turned again and walked away. If he wanted to live, he'd follow her.

Even in her fury she listened for his footsteps. They didn't come.

"The Scientist made it," 9 said softly. "Just like he made us."

"The first one was a mistake," she said bitterly.

"He didn't—" she could hear him swallowing, even from so far behind her. "It's one of us, 7."

It was the last thing she ever wanted to hear. "You woke it. You keep it."

...

* * *

**Fun Fact**: I thought about what to call the Scientist, considering that we were never given his name. And I realized how rarely we call one another by name when we talk to each other—only when singling out one person in a group or in moments of strong emotion. Most likely the Machine would have heard the Scientist referred to by pronouns: you, he, him, etc. And since he was the lead scientist in this particular project, I imagine that the other scientists in the group would have frequently addressed him as 'sir'. Thus, I have decided that the Machine mistook that for his name.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Still....... nothing.

AN: Yes, we've reached it. The final chapter of Colossus. And I apologize for the confusion. The Sequel will take a while to come out (expect the first chapter within a week or two). It will be called Pandemonium, and you can find it on my profile page if you're having trouble.

* * *

"7, please," he begged, starting after her. She didn't need to run to outpace him. She didn't even have to speed up. He was obviously struggling with his bad leg.

She didn't humor him with a reply. Within minutes he was far behind her, but still limping doggedly after her.

"7—" Maybe he skidded on some unseen scrap of debris. Maybe his leg just gave out underneath him. Whatever the reason, he went down. Hard. She spun when she heard him hit the floor—his face was contorted with pain. Angry or not, she wasn't about to leave him.

"Hold on, 9," she said, bounding to his side, but another creature beat her to it. The Machine's arms lashed out with serpentine speed and scooped him up. It pulled him past her, up to its gargantuan eye, still low enough for her to see.

It held him gently, almost cradled him in its claws as two delicate phalanges crept to the zipper on his front. It peered inside him for a long moment, and then scuttled away, back into the broad chamber where it had slept an hour before. With something akin to tenderness it laid him on the cushion while 7 raced to catch up. She'd barely crossed the room's threshold when the colossal orbit turned to her, barely inches away from her face. She felt like she was drowning in the fiery light, but she could hear a light scraping sound… somewhere.

At her feet.

**STAY**

She might have argued, or questioned it, or something, had the Machine given her a chance. But before she could imagine a reply it scuttled away, leaving her alone with 9. Without another thought she rushed to his side.

He seemed pale in the moonlight—deathly pale. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was set into a grimace, his hands clutching at his leg. The appendage stuck out at a sick angle.

"9?" she asked softly, creeping up beside him, careful not to disturb the cushion that made his bed.

"You didn't leave." A faint smile brushed his face.

"Are you all right?" she asked, knowing what a stupid question it was to ask. She couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Fine." She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.

Gently she nudged his hand away from his thigh, letting grip her own hand instead. "Let me… let me look at it."

"Okay." He nodded dizzily and his hands flew to hers. If his vice grip on her fingers was any indication, the pain was unbearable. Swallowing, she peeked past his open zipper.

If she could have thrown up, she would have. Of the rods that made up his leg, the largest was now in two jagged pieces and several others were badly cracked. An ugly question entered her mind: had it snapped because he fell, or had he fallen because it snapped?

"How did this happen?" she asked, swallowing back her revulsion.

"I fell." It came out as a hoarse whisper. "Didn't think it'd take me seriously when I told it to drop me." A dry laugh escaped his lips.

"That… that _thing_ did this to you?" she demanded.

"It was an accident." He tried to shake his head, but the motion sent him into a convulsion of pain. "The Scientist said… he said he made it. Like he made us."

"That doesn't matter," she said, squeezing his hands in hers.

"He said it was… corrupted," he went on. "By the Chancellor…he made it kill people, so that's what it did..." He cringed as another spasm washed over him. "But that's not what it was supposed to do…"

"Hush," she whispered. "It's all right. You can tell me when you're feeling better. It's going to be okay, 9. Everything's going to be okay."

A shallow thunder announced the Machine's return. Instinctively 7 crouched and reached for her spear… but it was gone, discarded at the Machine's feet when she'd run to 9's aid. The creature descended over him, its smallest appendages gathering around her friend, the larger ones carrying an assortment of rods and screws and bolts. One phalange struck at the inside of his leg—probably trying to unscrew the damaged pieces—but he howled in pain, and it withdrew as though it had been burned.

"It's all right, 9," she whispered, crouching over him. She couldn't believe she was doing this. In a single motion she seized his shoulders and put all her weight into holding him down. "Do what you have to do," she said to the Machine.

For half a second it hesitated before diving back inside him, its murderous claws moving as swiftly as they could to replace the broken rod while 7 fought his agonized convulsions.

"It's all right," she promised him over and over again. "It'll be all right. Just hold on. I've got you, 9."

All at once his eyes widened in a terrible gasp, and he lost consciousness altogether. She squeezed him tight, and tried not to cringe at the searing heat that ignited behind her. A glance told her all that she needed to know: that the Machine was welding the remaining cracks together, making sure they wouldn't break again. It didn't matter that she knew it would help him. It still looked horrible, and it sickened her to hear the pieces of his frame liquefy under the heat. At last it finished its work and withdrew, its arms hovering apprehensively around the two stitchpunks.

9 didn't move. 7 held him close, gently stroking his cheek, whispering words even she didn't understand anymore.

The Machine twitched restlessly around them, wanting to help but frightened of doing more harm.

Funny how much sense she could make of it now.

It started to scratch into the walls, its claws almost silent as it dug into plaster.

**DEAD?**

The red iris shook violently and it scratched out the word.

**NOT DEAD,** it wrote. Over and over again. **NOT DEAD NOT DEAD NOT DEAD NOT DEAD NOT DEAD**

"No," she said quietly, stilling the desperate scrawls. She should have been angry—the Machine had hurt him, after all—but she couldn't quite muster the fury anymore. "He's just resting. He'll be fine."

She stood, taking a deep breath. 9 had made his choice. And she… she was going to trust him, even if she didn't understand why.

"Come on," she told the Machine. "Help me take him home."

It scooped him up in its arms again, careful not to disturb his rest, and followed obediently at her heels.

She could live with this, she decided. She'd get over it eventually. For now she had other matters to focus on.

How was she going to explain this to the twins?

...

* * *

**Fun Fact:** I have a habit of predicting films as I watch them. Often I'm right, but just as often I'm wrong. I was (obviously) wrong with 9, but I'm going to tell you my prediction anyway, circa about halfway through the movie.

The Machine had intellect, but no conscience. The Scientist had both, but couldn't get close enough to the Machine to dissuade it from killing people, so he split himself into smaller, tastier morsels for it to consume. My thought was that they were all _supposed_ to be absorbed into the Machine, one by one, and with each gaining elements of that Stitchpunk's personality (2's ingenuity, 8's toughness and power, etc. It made sense at the time). By the time all nine of them had been absorbed, the Machine would be housing a single, unified soul, which would somehow imbue the Machine with conscience and compassion, and it would spend the rest of its existence rebuilding the world and nurturing the last remnants of life. Naturally, if this had happened I would have bawled my eyes out, because I was more than attached to most of the Stitchpunks. I can write grizzly deaths of beloved characters, I just can't watch them.

Basically what I'm writing incorporates the essence of that theory: that the Machine is a part of the set, whether they like it or not, and is an inexorable part of their destiny.


End file.
